


Well then

by Erised_Rain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Rough Sex, Tension, pre-Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erised_Rain/pseuds/Erised_Rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The proper way to say goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well then

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is unbetaed but it'll have to do. Happy birthday to my dearest, dearest friend! Love ya, Marley! (:  
> Yeah I know, I should be ashamed haha.

It’s three hours past midnight but October is still too shy to spread its autumn arms through the window of a fourth floor flat in Muggle London. Muggles are fascinating creatures, even after all these years it’s still a mystery how something called double glazing can protect from October winds like this, because there are leaves and paper-bags and used tissues and bubblegum wrappers haphazardly flying through the air but a little green kitchen on the 4th floor is quieter than ever. Perhaps it has nothing to do with the wind, or the double glazing, the raven-haired man considers as he leans back in the chair in this little green kitchen. The man is obviously very good looking; dark hair, dark eyes, perfectly symmetrical facial lines, aristocratic grace in a tilt of the head but there is something disturbingly ugly in the way he looks at the door. The war has written its messy secrets on the pale skin of Sirius Black’s face, little creases around his eyes could tell stories and stories about fear and fury and dirty tea cups in the sink. The problem is, in this little green kitchen, there is no one who would listen.

There was an owl, early today, around 7:32 this morning. _“Be back tonight. M.”_   the note said (that familiar dot over ‘I’ made Sirius frown) which now lies in a pile of ashes in the fireplace. It has been three weeks this time. Two days last time, eight days before that. Sirius never knows when Remus is going to leave or where he’s going or when he is coming back. It’s just this, a note here, an owl there, an empty tea cup in the sink…sometimes not even that. _It must be someone from us, someone we trust._ James had said with tiny Harry in his arms and the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. _Must be someone from us, then._

Sirius is drinking his second cup of coffee when Remus arrives, autumn leaves in his disheveled hair, coat dirty with dust and rain and something that looks like mud but Sirius has seen too much of this to know that dried blood can easily be mistaken for mud. Especially if the coat that has these kinds of stains is beige and bought four years ago at Diagon Alley (right after they had kissed in the dark alley just outside The Leaky Cauldron and purchased a bag of _Fizzing Whizzbees_ even though they were eighteen and too old for that, too old)

“Sirius?” Remus’s voice sounds extremely tortured and not too happy to see him. Perhaps he was hoping Sirius would be asleep by now? Sirius just looks at him, a figure in the narrow hallway, dimly lit by the light coming from the bathroom. From this distance Remus’s face looks strangely different, _old_ , unfriendly even and Sirius fights back the urge to look away. But then Remus takes a few steps towards the kitchen and his face takes its old, painfully familiar shape again, framed by sand-golden hair and too brown eyes and a shadow of something that was once perhaps a smile. _I know your face_ , Sirius thinks.

They stare at each other for a while, unable to move, just standing and looking at each other like in some stupid Muggle melodrama from the forties. Is this how you’re supposed to say _Welcome back, I missed you something terrible?_

“You’re not sleeping then.” Remus says first, as always, and Sirius doesn’t say anything. He is acutely aware of his own paralysis that has lasted for maybe two hundred years, maybe a whole century, maybe until you count to eight but eventually he manages to form a sentence in his head. It’s not one of those three million sentences he has been thinking about for the past few weeks. Not one of those sentences that have been breeding like wine flies over an open bottle of Chardonnay.

“Not tired.” he says.  It’s a lie, he is, but not from the lack of sleep, no. He is sick and tired of Remus’s comings and goings, of this doubt, uncertainty, lies, secrets, excuses. _Are you a spy?_ he wants to yell, to shake the truth right out of him. _Are you a spy? Where have you been? Are you leaving again? When? Why? Where? Are you a spy?_   Truth is better than this, he thinks, truth is better whatever it is, doubt is killing them both.

Remus sighs tiredly. “Well, then.” he says and sheds his coat. How are they even able to breathe in here, in this little green kitchen, Sirius wonders. How are they even able to breathe with air so thick with silent accusations and shattered pieces of trust and echoes of Remus’s footsteps across the old wooden floor?

 _Where have you been?_ Sirius thinks for exactly one hundredth and forty third time.

“Windy.” Remus says, looking through the window. It’s like this, like they were playing poker the night before and perhaps had a little bit too much firewhiskey so they said things and now it’s a bit awkward _. Windy._ _Bullshit,_ Sirius screams internally. _Fucking bullshit_. You’ve disappeared for three fucking weeks! You could have been plotting how to kill all our friends for all I know! _Windy_. Hah!

“Yeah. And we’re out of tea.” he says instead. They aren’t but what’s left of it is in the trash. Sirius threw it away a few days ago because the kitchen smelled too much like Remus. He has been sleeping on the brown-checkered couch in the living room for the same reason. “There's coffee on the counter.”

“Thanks.” Remus mutters. And then “You’ve seen James?” makes Sirius furious for a whole host of reasons, fingers tightening around the porcelain cup. A knotted coil of anger makes him almost sick and he briefly considers what would be a better choice – to knock the air right out of Remus’s lungs or to vomit all over his fucking brown shoes.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks, darkly.

“James, our friend? Glasses, knack for getting into trouble, baby in his arms, his son’s godfather rather annoying bastard sometimes? I believe you know him.” Really, sometimes Sirius can’t help but hate Remus’s casual sarcasm. He doesn’t laugh.

“What’s it to you, Remus?”

“It’s just a question, for Christ sake.”

“Just a question.”

“Yes.”

“Come off it.”

Remus is quiet for a moment. “How about Lily then?” he asks.

“Fuck you.” Sirius hisses. “What is this, a fucking interrogation?” he stands up, slamming the chair so hard that the entire table shakes. The room is suddenly strangely dark and it _is_ windy, after all, he concludes. _  
_

His ears are filled with buzzing, the pressure behind his eyelids is unbearable and his throat is burning – all the consequences of unpreparedness for this thing, that Sirius has been through before, a thousand times, always in some different way, but never like this, completely ordinary, stupidly possible, tangible.  This is it. Remus doesn’t trust him either and that shouldn’t surprise him but _how can you? You know me, I would never. You know me…_

“I don’t know. Should it be?” Remus asks carefully, too brown eyes looking at Sirius like he sees him for the first time. _No matter how you look at me,_ Sirius thinks, _there is not a single ugly thing that you could pin on me, not a single ugly thing of which I wasn’t aware of first. Who knows Sirius Black better than Sirius Black himself! There’s only one thing I’ve never told you, Remus. Only one thing and that is not what you’re trying to find right now. Fuck you._

“Where have you been?” is Sirius’s answer.

Remus opens his mouth then closes it. “Sirius.” he sighs. “You know I can’t.”

“Right.” Sirius snaps. Pile of Erumpent shit, that. “It’s…this is- _fuck_! You’ve been gone for three fucking weeks!”

Remus looks at him for the longest of moments. “That's true, yes.”

“And you look like shit.”

“Why thank you, Sirius. Always so polite.” Remus’s voice is strangely weak.

“And you won’t tell me-” He stops. There’s almost mad bark of laughter escaping Sirius’s lips. He tosses the cup in the sink and the porcelain shatters. “It’s getting too crowded in here, Remus, with all the trolls we’ve been ignoring.” he says, his own voice sounding way too foreign.

Remus smiles sadly and something in Sirius’s chest aches, something right between his third and fourth rib on the left.

“It does, yes.”

“Well then.” says Sirius. _Well then, this is it then? What more could there be? I’ve never said, neither have you. It’s just this, it was what it was, it is what it is and nothing more…We’re just friends that fuck from time to time. Just friends helping each other. And you’ve been away for three weeks and I nearly died. Well then._

Suddenly it’s too much to be in the same room with Remus Lupin. _I’m losing it_ , Sirius thinks. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control over his thoughts. “There’s some spaghetti in the fridge.” he says, finally.  “Well, good night.” Sirius makes for the narrow hallway but suddenly there is a hand on his wrist. It’s warm and familiar and, fuck it, it shouldn’t be.

“Padfoot,” Remus says softly (in the same way a child says _‘Mum’_ , or a friend says _‘Together? I think so’_ or a teenage boy says _‘First. I love you.’_ or a man in the church says _‘I do.’_ …in the same way one small Gryffindor boy, standing next to the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy on the seventh floor,  once said _‘Only for you, Moony.’_ ) which is contradictory to his actions because he has Sirius strongly pinned against the wall.

“Padfoot.” Remus sounds like he’s drowning, fist curled tightly into the fabric of Sirius’s shirt. “Don’t do this now, please.” he whispers somewhere in the crook of Sirius’s neck and the warm puff of his breath makes Sirius shiver. They stand like this for quite some time, a hundred years perhaps, before Remus’s warm lips touch that place just below Sirius’s ear. “Sirius, I just. Just. Need.”

Sirius doesn’t know what Remus wants but it’s very clear that he needs it too, yes. Whatever it is, it obviously includes Remus, so he needs it. It’s been too long, too long since they were this close, since – _oh_ \- Remus’s lips were on his neck, like this, kissing him almost feverishly, since he felt this particular heartbeat under his fingertips. Familiar bump-be-bump, and it shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be.

He can’t seem to stop himself though, his hands are all over Remus’s back, Remus’s chest, Remus’s stomach. He just wants to _feel_ him, flesh and blood and skin and closeness. _You’re real, you’re alive -_ Sirius’s fingers are telling - _You’re here. You were supposed to be mine. Like this._

Remus keeps planting small, hungry kisses down his neck. He plays with the edge of Sirius’ shirt, fingers grazing flesh, which is something he does when he fights the wolf, Sirius knows. Torn between his human reservations and the urge to just rip the shirt off and possibly bite all the way through Sirius’s skin. It’s two days before the full and he could hurt him, he could, but Sirius trusts him not to, blindly, always. Perhaps he should reconsider that too? 

Finally Remus growls softly; this means he can’t fight it any longer and he lifts the shirt up and over Sirius’s head. He doesn’t waste any time, shaky hands are trailing a path along the waistband of Sirius’s jeans. “God,” Sirius has a chance to gasp before Remus’s mouth on his, greedy and desperate, for the first time in the last three weeks. So he kisses him back, with equal longing and something else, something he’s never told.

“Bedroom,” Remus manages to hiss against his lips, hands busy with Sirius’s belt. “Oh, I’ve-“ he starts but Sirius kisses whatever Remus wanted to say, he doesn’t think he can handle it, and they stumble into the bedroom. One of them bumps into the chipped, wooden table and something falls off and shatters. Lily’s vase, Sirius thinks absently, the one we got last Christmas. _‘Merry Christmas, you two. A little something for your flat, time to make it look more like a home, don’t you think? No, Sirius, that disturbing, gooey thing on your table is not considered decoration, not even in an alternative universe. I don’t care you and James had a bet, get rid of it, it’s utterly disgusting. Remus, darling, please, explain the concept of good taste to your flatmate. Home, Sirius, not circus, okay? ’_ Home. Somehow it always did feel like home, with Remus sitting by the window, in that hideous green armchair, cup of hot tea in one hand, The Prophet in the other. _We didn’t need the vase_ , _Lily_ , he wants to shout.

There is an almost wolfish growl in Remus’s chest because Sirius has managed to unbutton his shirt and pinch his left nipple in the process. _You like that, I know,_ he smirks. _I know all your buttons, Moony, everything…well, almost everything._

Remus mumbles something incoherent and kisses Sirius deeper, messily, teeth clattering and tongues sliding. He grounds his hips against Sirius’s letting out a sharp moan into Sirius’s mouth when their erections brush. Sirius swallows it all greedily. He loves the sounds Remus makes when they fuck, loves the way Remus's body melts into his own, loves these moments when that body is his and his alone, to do with it whatever he wants. And fuck, he wants _everything_.

Finally, Sirius yanks Remus’s shirt and throws it somewhere behind them, not breaking the kiss. It’s only skin to skin now and Sirius knows everything there, he knows that Remus has freckles between his shoulder blades and what sound he makes when Sirius kisses the back of his knee, he knows which scar makes Remus ticklish, which makes him aroused, which can make him scream and chant Sirius’s name.

But not quite everything, he thinks as his hands skim over Remus’s ribcage. A mark there, a bruise here - relics of the Things They Do Not Talk About. His fingers pause and stutter right above Remus’s hip bone where there are unknown teeth marks, red against the pale skin, too big to be Moony’s, too close to the full to be fresh like this. _I don’t know this one_ , he panics. _I don’t know, I don’t know._

It takes Remus a moment to find breath to speak. “I-it’s okay, Sirius, It’s, I swear to god, I-“. 

But  Sirius snarls furiously because he can’t stand and listen to yet another lie, another excuse Remus is about to say. Not again. Not now. “Shut it. Just fucking shut up!”

So Remus does. Sirius cups his face with both hands, and he’s not gentle, not at all, perhaps he’s even trying to hurt him. _Am I_ , he wonders as he pins Remus against a bedpost, nudging a knee between his legs. He lets out a noise which Sirius doesn’t know how to catalogue. It’s half-plead, half-growl, half-pure desperation, half-something else entirely…and is that even possible, how many halves one whole can have? It’s a tricky question…two is too many, or perhaps too little or perhaps just enough? Or maybe it was never whole to begin with? So he pins him harder, oh, there, _hard._

Eventually, it gets too difficult to think, so Sirius stops for a while. There are frantic hands easing down his zip and tugging at his jeans. Usually it’s not like this, usually it’s slower and less _raw_ , usually there is a lot of playful bickering and teasing going on (sometimes even wrestling) before one of them (usually Sirius) gives up and pours breathless threats onto Remus’s skin _(‘Bloody tease. If you don’t fuck me this instant I am going to burn all your books and piss in your tea, I swear to god, Moony_!). But it’s different now, _desperate_ , in so many ways and Sirius wants to count them all but it is hard when there are deft fingers stroking his cock through the slit in his underwear. He gasps instead.

The heat is overwhelming, Sirius can’t breathe and he vaguely wonders how this is still possible, after all this time, to still feel like this, like caught merely two inches under sun. He is literally burning.

And Remus will damn well burn with him. He takes a deep, shaky breath, pushing Sirius's trousers and y-fronts down over his hips and drops to his knees, gracefully like everything Remus does. He licks his lips looking up at Sirius, asking permission. “F-fuck.” Sirius rasps, curling his fingers in Remus’s brown hair and forces him roughly forward. _There’s your permission_ , he thinks cruelly.

It startles Remus at first; he almost chokes as Sirius pushes his cock into his mouth. But he takes it, without complaint, a pathetic little whimper the only sound he makes before picking up Sirius’s pace, throat trained enough to take Sirius in deep. This isn’t how they usually do it either. Usually Remus would look up at Sirius and smile, the thrilling combination of lust and mischief in his eyes, and his clever little tongue would dart out playfully, licking first the tip of his cock then the pulsating veins on the underside. Sirius would be screaming internally, willing himself to stand still, cursing self-control and whoever invented the concept (clearly some poor sod who never had a pleasure of being sucked off by Remus Lupin). But this too is different. Just as Remus brings his left hand up to cup Sirius’s balls, Sirius curls his fingers tighter in that brown hair and slams hard, mercilessly into the wet warmth of Remus’s mouth. Remus gags a little but Sirius doesn’t care. He does it again. And again. And again. And, Merlin, he is fucking Remus’s mouth, fast and uncontrollable, moaning hoarsely while he looks how his entire length disappears into that tight throat.

“Look at me.” he says roughly, pulling Remus’s hair so he can look up, but not hard enough to make him stop. He doesn’t want him to stop. “Is this what you want, Remus? Me to fuck your mouth? Just like this. You love it don’t you?” he breathes out. 

And that is what does it. Remus lets out a sharp growl and pulls away abruptly. He’s flushed and panting when he stands up, more animal than human. “I think that’s been quite enough fun for you, _Padfoot_.” he says darkly and yanks Sirius’s chin up, devouring his mouth; licking, sucking, biting, burning the words Sirius wants to say. “My turn, _love_.” he hisses, holding Sirius’s chin firmly in place, and this strange little word, which none of them had ever said before, sounds more like a threat than an endearment. _It’s all wrong_ , Sirius thinks. _So fucking wrong._

“Just friends helping each other, isn’t that right _, Moony_?” Sirius pants. He bites Remus’s finger, a little bit too hard and Remus laughs with some strange, unfamiliar sort of laugh that sends chills down Sirius’s spine. In one quick movement he turns around and pushes Sirius on the bed, pinning him down with the ferocity of a predator that, after hours of playing hide and seek, finally caught his prey. Sirius shivers. Full moon is in two nights, yes, and some lies are easier when said in the dark.

“Except, that's not true.” Remus says, voice low and there’s something, something there that Sirius doesn’t recognize. But he knows exactly what Remus is saying, he understands this, it’s his lie after all and Remus is taking that too. “Except, that's not true.” Sirius agrees, spitefully, honestly.

He can’t move much though because Remus is straddling him, his thighs on both sides of Sirius’s hips, the places where they touch bleed heat even though Remus still has his trousers on. Must fix that, then. Sirius shifts a little so that he can reach Remus's zipper and somehow he manages to pull down his trousers, together with his underwear.

With clothes out of the way, Remus moans and thrusts against Sirius’s hands. Just when Sirius is about to close his fingers around Remus’s naked cock, the lycanthrope growls deeply. With a surprising (no, not really surprising) strength he grabs Sirius’s wrists, pinning them against the bed, right above Sirius’s head. The muscles of his arms are trembling with the last shreds of self-control and his lips are next to Sirius’s ear when he says hoarsely “I am going to fuck you now.”

 _You’ve already done that_ , Sirius reflects. In more ways than one, more times than he can count. “Yes. Do it.” he says instead, his breathing sharp and strangled, chest rapidly going up and down under Remus’s weight. “While we’re still young, preferably.” he taunts. “Go on then.  _Fuck_  me.” Remus’s breath hitches at that, his cock thrusting determinedly against Sirius’s thigh, and, oh god, yes, _yes_ , Sirius thinks loudly,  _you’ve fucked me up for a lifetime, mate._

“And then I’m going to leave.”  says Remus.

Ironically, this doesn’t come as a surprise. “I know.” Somehow he knows, he has known for a while. And that’s all he can say really, everything else, he is sure, would make him choke on his words. How do you say goodbye to something you never really had? How do you choose between ‘Stay’ and ‘Go’ when both choices are equally deadly?

It’s Remus who gives him the answer.

A complete contrast to this scorching, almost animalistic need, Remus plants one soft, shaky kiss on Sirius’s forehead. “Sirius.” He whispers, quietly and that simple word, stupid little word, has weight. Sirius knows that too. He can feel it, he can almost touch it. _And fuck you Remus Lupin_ , he curses internally, _you’ve always been fucking awful with goodbyes._

“I know.” he murmurs into the hollow of Remus’ throat and bites down hard until he tastes blood. _I know_. “Now fuck me and let’s be done with this.” His voice comes out way steadier than he feels and of all things, he’s _grateful_ for that.

Remus doesn’t say anything but he lets go of Sirius’s wrists, wrapping his arms around Sirius instead, pulling him close, hard, fast. He tugs painfully at Sirius’s hair to tilt his head up and then he’s kissing him like his life depends on it. Sirius moans sharply and kisses him back, scraping his teeth against Remus’ tongue because that’s easier than thinking about how good Remus is at pretending. _Perfected it, didn’t you? I almost believed you there…for a second._

“I hate you.” Remus hisses, breaking the kiss. He shifts, digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of Sirius’ hips, strong enough to leave bruises. It is still Remus though, not the wolf. Not the wolf, goddamnit.

Sirius whimpers, corresponding squeeze on Remus’s arms, urging him down on his pelvis. “You-“ he breathes pushing his hips up, although he feels like laughing hysterically.  His back arches as their cocks touch but this time it’s Remus who gasps, eyes fixed on Sirius, an emotion on his face stranded somewhere between raw avarice and some unexplainable sadness.

“Yes, hate you, so much,” Sirius manages, wondering if there were ever a statement that was more truth and more a lie at the same time. Not that it matters now. It's pointless and God, so stupid. But he _will_ bite Remus later, again, right where his collarbone meets the curve of the shoulder and he will hope, we will pray to Merlin that it scars.

“So much.” he repeats quietly as Remus settles between his splayed thighs, breathing heavily. Remus’s too long fringe is plastered to his forehead, droplets of sweat trickling down his face. He looks positively debauched, cheeks bright red, lips swollen; hungry and needy and hot, _beautiful_ so much that it literally hurts. So much that Sirius has to bite his lip, trying to suffocate a treacherous whine bubbling madly in his throat. His lashes flutter shut, hands digging into the sheets, as he prepares himself for the inevitable pain. Remus will not make this easy for him, he knows. This time he won’t.

“Alright there, Padfoot?” Remus asks anyway, shifting the position of his hips so that the head of his cock presses against Sirius's entrance.

 _No, not alright, nothing is fucking alright, Lupin!_ Sirius thinks wildly. “Yes.” he says and Remus closes his eyes.

Some words have weight, he thinks as Remus pushes in roughly, deep inside him, making the stars explode behind his eyelids; some words have weight and some lies are easier when said in the dark.

Well then. 

 


End file.
